Reflections
by Limmet
Summary: Some men are like tree branches dipping into a stream, inevitably ruffling the water that flows past. Colonel Robert E. Hogan is one such man. A piecemeal look on what Hogan means to those in Stalag 13.
1. Newkirk

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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Corporal Peter Newkirk has been here in Stalag 13 for a long time. So long that sometimes it feels as if his previous life was nothing but a dream, or a fragmentary memory that the slow erosion of time has turned into dust.

But there are some things he still remembers vividly.

For instance, the years he spent growing up in the wretched underbelly of London, in one of its poorest areas. Life wasn't easy, then, not with a father who abandoned the family when Newkirk was only a young boy, leaving his mother struggling to support their children by herself, only barely making ends meet.

No, life wasn't easy for any of them, but there was little they could do about it. Newkirk learned early on that when you're born into the lowest of the working classes, in the wrong part of town, speaking with the wrong accent, you're predestined to remain in the gutter. Opportunities were clearly only meant for other people, and the doors that opened so readily for those with a more proper background or a fancier family name would resolutely slam right into his face.

It seemed he would be destined to live and die where he had been born; England wasn't a country that favoured upwards social movement for people like him.

It was all beyond his influence anyway, when it all came down to it.

But his family needed money badly, and he could see how his mother was wearing out her already thin, frail body with hard work. He had to help out, and there were precious few ways to do that.

He didn't plan to head down that road at first, he really didn't, but one day he found a wallet just lying there on the cobblestones. There was money in it. Seven pounds, even. For a while he just stood there with the wallet in his hands, hesitating. All he could think of was how oddly smooth the brown leather felt against his skin.

Then he made his decision.

And really, who could blame him? It wasn't his fault that their family had no money, or that his little sister would go to bed crying because she was so hungry.

Not long after, he started picking pockets. He wasn't proud of it or anything, but it put food on the table, as well as a strange expression on his mother's face whenever she saw the money he brought home. She never asked him where it came from, which was strange, but he still remembers how she looked so sorrowful – or was it disappointed? – every time.

Still, he only did what he had to. It wasn't as if anyone else would take care of his family for him, was it?

Once, he was beaten up pretty badly by a gang of older boys for taking his business into the wrong area of town. But as soon as he was back on his two feet again, he returned to prowling the streets, albeit more carefully from then on.

As the years went by, he moved up to slightly bigger things, even did a few jobs on demand – picked locks, cracked a couple of safes for people even shadier than him, that kind of thing. It was more of a natural progress of things than a need for more money. He didn't know what else to do with his life and he had no other skills he could put to use, so what else was there for him? He hadn't chosen this kind of life; he had just accepted it because there had been no other viable alternative at the time. And now there was nothing else he _could_ do.

At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. Especially during the sleepless nights when he was just sick with disgust for himself and what he was doing.

One day, a circus came to town. He wasn't actually going to see the show; it was merely out of curiosity that he aimlessly wandered around the colourful tents where the circus staff had set up camp, watching as the artists practiced for the night's performance and the lions prowled around in their cages while mindlessly twirling a coin between his fingers.

That was the day he was _discovered_, for lack of a better word.

And before he knew it, he was a performing artist, amusing people from all over the country with his dexterity and magic tricks. The audience _ooh-ed_ and _aah-ed_ as their watches and jewelry unexpectedly appeared between his fingers. They whistled and applauded as he made coins disappear and cards trade places before their very eyes.

It was a stunning feeling, and he realized with amazement that for the first time in many years, he was happy with himself. It was during that time it became clear to him that his destiny was now his own, and everything lay in his own hands. He had the power to do what he wanted; bad circumstances were no longer holding him down. That was an exhilarating kind of thrill he had never experienced before.

Yes, his life was finally his to control.

Then came the war.

And when England calls on you to serve, you don't turn her down, that much Newkirk knew. Not unless you wish to go to jail as a draft dodger anyway.

However, his war ended the night he had to bail out of a burning plane, the pilot's brain substance splattered all over the cracked windshield.

And after being captured, processed and interrogated, he ended up in Stalag 13.

Things didn't go well from there, and already on his first day in the camp he got into trouble and was thrown into the cooler. A solitary cell. Newkirk couldn't stand small, confined spaces after a traumatizing accident in his childhood involving a narrow, dried-up well. He shouted and swore, cursed the Germans to Hell and back, but no one came. He was alone in the darkness. He beat his fists bloody as he banged them against the sturdy steel door. No one opened it.

Finally, he just collapsed on the hard bunk lining the wall and cried – imagine, him, Peter Newkirk, _crying_! – and then fell into a sleep riddled with nightmares of explosions and tiny cramped spaces where he couldn't breathe and bullets flying through the air.

A few days later, he was let out. But by then, it was as if something inside him had changed. Perhaps it was from the terror of being locked up in the darkness, or the frightful memories of being shot down, or maybe the realization that he would most likely be in this bloody camp for the rest of the war, however long it would see fit to last.

No, not changed. Broken. Something inside him was broken, and he didn't know how to fix it. If it even could be fixed.

Memories of his pre-war life taunted him almost every waking moment as he tried to settle into the daily camp routine. So did that nefarious voice inside of him, as it whispered its venom into his ear. _Once, you were free to do what you wanted with your life; for a short time you held your own destiny in your hands. But that was then. Now you're just a wretched sod who doesn't even get to decide when to get up in the morning, what to eat, when to shower. From now on, everything you do will be on someone else's orders. _

Yes, perhaps the last few years had been too good for someone like him. What had he expected, really? Of course, something like that would never last; he should have known it from the very start.

_He should have known. _

Then, one day, Colonel Hogan arrived in Stalag 13.

And before Newkirk knew it, everything had changed. He was no longer the silent shadow that would stand and stare longingly over the barbed wire as the other prisoners were playing volleyball or rugby. No, he was digging tunnels like there was no tomorrow and forging German documents and sewing phony SS uniforms. And better yet, after the operation had been set up, he was once more back to fighting in the war, albeit covertly.

As well as doing what he had not long ago thought impossible – taking his destiny into his own hands again.

Newkirk might have had his initial scuffles with the American colonel, but in the end, he would follow the man to the deepest pits of Hell. Because Hogan gave him back something precious no one else could ever have done – the control of his own life.

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_**End note:**__ English is not my first language; sorry if it shows overly much. If someone is willing to beta this story (for English errors, mostly) I would be most grateful. _


	2. Schultz

_**Author's note: **Thank you so much for all the reviews; I'm glad you've been enjoying this story so far. :)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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Sergeant Hans Schultz is a simple man. He does not try to understand the war, merely make the best out of a bad situation.

Being a guard at Stalag 13 isn't all that bad though. He knows much worse things could befall him.

In fact, they already have. Such as the day they took his beloved toy factory away from him. When the telegram arrived, he stared at it for a long time, unable to believe his eyes. _Requisitioned for the war effort. _The words hit him like a sledgehammer, just as devastatingly crushing and painful. _Your support is a great help for the Fatherland, and the Führer sends his personal thanks. Your factory will be returned to you once Germany's victory is ascertained. _

He had cried then, had just sat there and weeped silently, his tears dripping on the dreadful telegram. His lifework, taken away from him, and for what purpose? To make weapons that would kill people.

It had gotten even worse. Not long after that, his Fatherland had called upon him to serve his country with weapon in hand.

At those news, it had been his wife's turn to cry. _How will we make do now, with five children?_ _What will become of us, Hans? _

But, as a gift from above, luck turned out to be on his side. Deemed unfit for the front, he was instead stationed as a guard at the nearby Luftstalag in Hammelburg. Again, his wife had cried, but with relief this time.

Still, the war is always near and ever present; he sees it every time he goes home on leave. The bombed-out buildings from Allied air raids. The empty, haunted eyes of the people he walks by in the streets. The rallying propaganda posters that continue to spout their message as if none of this has ever happened. As if everything is normal.

But it's not normal. Even in the supposed sanctuary of his own house there are constant reminders of the war – the rationing coupons, for instance, and his wife's growing concern as the family's thin bundle of coupons dwindle.

_Soon they'll start rationing rain water and air too_, she says, anger in her voice. She says other things as well, many of them not very kind, some of them directed at him. He knows that she does not really mean them, that she is merely worried and afraid, and so she lashes out at him because Hitler and Göring and Himmler aren't there to answer for what they've done. The worst part is that even though he should know better, he can't help but get angry too when she says such hurtful things. And so they quarrel, argue bitterly in front of their children who watch them in silence with big, terrified eyes.

Until his wife has had enough and walks out of the room and slams the door with a sharp _bang_, leaving him standing there wondering when it was that things changed so much.

The tone between them is more amiable in the letters they send back and forth during the long periods when he's stationed at the camp. However, even this correspondence makes him feel guilt. A good husband and father should be joyous when receiving mail from home, but lately the letters from his wife fill him with a sense of dread, as they are only further reminders of the war. He doesn't want to _know_ that there are no longer any eggs to be had in all of Hammelburg, or that Herr and Frau Thalmann's house was hit in last night's air strike.

Or that their neighbours' oldest son has been drafted.

He thinks of seventeen-year-old Karl, his own eldest. _When will it be his turn?_ The fear tears viciously at his heart and fills him with immense sadness every time he dares to think about this. Karl is too young to be sent off to war, too young to kill.

Too young to die.

He would gladly take Karl's place should that day come, but he knows that it is not possible. Besides, he is stationed here at Stalag 13, and will probably never see battle again. Just like he will never see his toy factory again.

It's strange, though, how being in Stalag 13, constantly surrounded by soldiers, makes the war seem more distant than when he visits home and is temporarily reimmersed in civilian life. Like the war is somehow less real in this camp, despite all the men in military uniform and the machine guns mounted in the guard towers.

Perhaps the prisoners here have something to do with it. They seem to act as if there's not a devastating war going on outside the barbed wire. As if he and them are friendly rivals and not actually members of different armies sent out to kill each other.

Yes, perhaps it's because of the prisoners' attitude. But mostly, it is because of Colonel Hogan.

The American officer is something else, always with a story to tell or a joke to share. He organizes basking weaving contests, dancing lessons, and everything else that has no place in a war, let alone a prison camp. He charms you, deceives you and leaves you wondering what on Earth really happened. The man is an enigma, equally fascinating and impossible to fully grasp. He sweeps forth like a whirlwind, leaving no one in his way unaffected. Schultz knows that try as he might, he can never keep up with Hogan, but the colonel's shenanigans are still entertaining and a very welcome distraction.

And that is why Schultz never reports the monkey business that he sees going on in the camp, because if he did, the American would surely be shot.

And Schultz can't let that happen. He _needs_ Hogan, because he is the only one who can make him actually forget about the war, even if it's only for a moment.


	3. Kinch

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

For Kinch, there is a _before_ and an _after_, and he knows that there always will be. At least in his mind, if nothing else.

_Before_, he was a simple, ordinary man working as a telephone technician. It wasn't a high-paying or very prestigious job, but it paid the bills.

He never did see much of the world, having never moved away from the part of Detroit that he grew up in. At times, he briefly considered perhaps moving away to someplace better, but there was a small voice inside of him, then, whispering that there was no _better_, and that things wouldn't be any different elsewhere. For him, there would always be dirty looks and ugly slurs, distrust and resentment.

So he stayed.

There weren't all that many coloured people where he grew up. The area was predominantly white, but he never had much contact with anyone outside of his race. There was this white boy who lived a few streets away from him when he was a kid, though. The two of them used to play together, sometimes – cowboys and Indians, basketball, that kind of thing – until one day when they were spotted by the kid's father. Since that day, they never played with each other again.

He doesn't remember the name of that young boy, but Kinch thinks that he is probably now one of those men who will cross to the other side of the street rather than pass him, or who will mutter _damn_ _nigger_ under their breaths not caring if he can hear them or not.

But he got used to it. It wasn't as if he had ever known anything else. At least he managed to find employment, even if it wasn't easy as a black man.

Still, he always felt like an outsider, or an alien, like he was somehow on the outside looking in at everyone else who was living their lives like they wanted to without being restricted by ever-present barriers. He felt like an invisible ghost in his hometown; he wasn't actually a part of it, and never had been. For a while, he took up boxing, futilely thinking that it would release some of the growing tension inside of him. It never did, though, and even though he was moderately successful and won some fairly big matches, he eventually quit.

Then came the war.

And one day, he found himself at the local recruiting office, without really knowing why he was even there. Perhaps he wanted to feel useful for once, perhaps he wanted to try something else, or perhaps he just wanted out.

After going through basic training, he ended up a radio operator and a sergeant. Not too shabby, all considering.

Of course, like everything else, the Army was segregated too. The men under him, his fellow sergeants, and his commanding officers were all black. He never reflected much over it, though, since that was the way of the world.

Their unit was hazed pretty badly by the men from the white units, whenever they came into contact. Clearly, they were considered second-rate soldiers, a lower-class kind of fighters who could never be on par with the regular units. Some men in his unit were angered by this, and a couple of the more hotheaded ones got into trouble, but Kinch remained calm and passive. Getting mad wouldn't change a thing or improve their situation one bit; that much he knew from previous experiences in life.

But inside, he was angry too.

Then he was shot down on a mission to Hamburg and had to bail out over enemy territory. He never found out what happened to the rest of the crew, even if he still thinks about them sometimes. Wonders if they're still alive.

His subsequent capture and processing were uncomfortable experiences. The Germans were not used to black people, but despite that they had clear views on his kind. Some of the guards at the Dulag didn't even want to touch him. Others stood outside his cell to simply gawk at him, like he was some kind of exotic circus animal. And yet others spit at him and called him words that he had never heard before despite his fluency in German, but whose meaning he had no trouble guessing at.

Luckily, his interrogation was mercifully short. He doesn't know if it was because his interrogators didn't want to deal with a black man any more than they absolutely had to, or if they simply assumed that he didn't know anything of value, or if there was some other reason altogether, but not long after his capture he was on his way to his home for the rest of the war – Stalag 13.

At the camp, he was assigned to the only coloured barracks on the premises. It was situated at the far end of the compound, away from the other barracks.

Prison life was dull and mind-numbingly tedious. Especially so for the black prisoners, who were mostly kept out of the ongoing activities in the camp. There was very little to relieve the boredom, except the unwelcome attention from some of the white prisoners who decided to take out their frustrations on the coloured POWs.

It all made Kinch feel terribly bitter and resentful. Because in the end, nothing had really changed. For all intents and purposes, his life was the same as it had been in Detroit. In that way, Germany was not so different from America. He was still on the outside looking in, still not a part of anything.

But then there was the _after_. That was, when Colonel Hogan came to Stalag 13.

After having checked each prisoner's background and specialties, the colonel ordered the barracks desegregated. Kinch was shocked at this, and even more so when he found out that he had been assigned to Hogan's barracks. Who would ever have imagined that, a white officer who didn't mind sharing his living space with a black man?

Kinch soon became an integral part of the operation that the colonel set up, right under the noses of their oblivious German captors. In the process, he got his old secret wish fulfilled too: to finally be a part of something, to be on the inside, not the outside.

And now, for the first time in his life, the colour of his skin makes no difference.

One day – if he survives the war, that is – he will get to go home again. He doesn't try to fool himself; he knows that once he is back in Detroit, everything will be as it was when he left. The dirty looks and ugly slurs will still be there, as will the distrust and resentment.

Everything except one thing that will be different: it will be _after_, not _before_. He has now tasted the forbidden fruit of equality, of not being judged by the colour of his skin. And that feeling will remain with him for the rest of his life.

Colonel Hogan is all that which people give him credit for – a competent officer, a brilliant tactician, and a great leader. But to Kinch, Hogan will always be that one man who gave him the chance to feel like an equal.


	4. Klink

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.  
_

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Sometimes when he thinks back, Klink can't tell yesterday from the day before. The days here at Stalag 13 are so similar that they meld into one another, leaving a uniform blur in his mind, only occasionally interspersed with a few memorable moments here and there.

Hogan is standing in Klink's office, prattling on about some obscure section of the Geneva Convention that states that prisoners are entitled to participate in weekly knitting classes, if he is to believe his senior POW. Klink is confused at this, and Hogan talks so much and so fast that he can't really follow.

Why would the prisoners want yarn and needles to knit with in the first place? He doesn't understand this.

He also doesn't understand Hogan. The man is a prisoner of war. Technically, Klink holds the power of life and death over him, and yet Hogan isn't afraid. Klink doesn't think the opposite would hold true if their roles had been reversed. Which he fears that they indeed will be, sooner or later, with the way the war is going for Germany.

This thought is, however disturbing, only another drop into the ocean of various fears and worries that is Colonel Klink's mind and that has ruled his life with an iron fist for as long as he can remember.

The first fear he can recall dates back to his early boyhood – the big black German shepherd that their neighbours further down the street used to own. It was a vicious thing, always barking and growling like mad whenever someone came into sight. Klink had to walk past that house on his way to school, and every time he was afraid that the raving beast would tear a hole in the dog fence and slip out and attack.

Of course, that never happened and their neighbors eventually got rid of that dog, but his fear never disappeared; it was only directed somewhere else.

Then there was the fear that he would turn out a disappointment to his father, a strict military man who expected his son to walk in his footsteps. Klink tried – he really did – to live up to those expectations, but he still fears that he never succeeded. That he is a failure and a laughable satire of an officer.

He has never told anyone of his fear of flying. Such a thing is disgraceful for a Luftwaffe officer, but every time he got into that Heinkel as a young man, it was as if a cold hand gripped his heart, not letting go until he was safely back on the ground again.

He wonders if he's the only one who ever felt that way. Who's ever heard of a Luftwaffe officer afraid of flying, really? It's an oxymoron, a pathetic contradiction. It shames him, but he can't help it.

The onset of the war brought the fear that he would be sent out to active duty on the front. He never did cope well with bullets and bombs and grenades whistling through the air. It was a great relief when he was instead posted as Kommandant at Stalag 13, far away from the things that made him sick with terror during the Great War.

However, his initial relief did not last very long. Because he soon realized that in his new position he had to deal with men like General Burkhalter and Major Hochstetter who would come into his camp and berate him, accuse him, and threaten to have him sent to the Russian front.

Major Hochstetter in particular scares Klink. The man is a Gestapo officer, and Klink has heard the whispered rumours of what happens to those who get on the bad side of the Gestapo. Or to those who are suspected of treason or sabotage. Horrible images that vividly illustrate what goes on in the Gestapo interrogation centers keep him awake at night, as he tosses and turns between the sheets before finally falling into a restless sleep.

Every time he sees Major Hochstetter arriving in his camp, he is afraid that the man has come to take him away for interrogation. That he has been falsely accused of some unspeakable crime against the Reich and will now live out his final hours or days in torturous agony before being shot.

General Burkhalter is only slightly less terrifying. Klink is grateful that he has his impeccable record of no escapes to hide behind whenever that man is around. He doesn't know what he would have done without it. Probably get shipped off to the Eastern front with the next train. And so, he wakes up with a gnawing fear every morning that one of the prisoners will have escaped during the night, and it isn't until after roll call, when Schultz has confirmed that everyone is indeed present and accounted for, that the fear temporarily subsides.

No, Klink has no idea how Hogan can be so utterly unafraid. But one thing he _does_ know, and that is that Hogan has the courage to go one on one with men like Hochstetter and Burkhalter and keep them off Klink. He will probably never know how Hogan does it, but somehow the American always manages to come barging into his office at just the right moment, when Klink has an angry officer at his throat, and smoothly defuse the situation. The first time that happened he could only sit and stare in shocked awe and gratitude as Hogan launched into a lengthy tirade that eventually convinced Hochstetter that his suspicions were groundless. He will never forget the feeling as the Gestapo officer merely snorted and then turned on his heel and walked out the door, sparing a trembling Klink from further agony.

Like how the mere flicking of a light switch dispels the frightening, terrible shadows lurking in the corner. And Hogan was that very switch.

He has no idea why Hogan does this when it is obvious that he has no love for Klink. The American might not be aware of it, but he can hear the mockery behind the flattering words that always flow so smoothly from Hogan's mouth. Despite the usual cowed facade that the man keeps in the Kommandant's presence, Klink can feel the underlying resentment seeping through, and occasionally hit him like a brick wall in those rare instances when Hogan loses his patience and the mask slips off.

Maybe he should resent Hogan in turn for being an enemy, for being a cocky American, or simply for resenting _him_, but Klink can't muster up the energy for that. By all rights he should have Hogan transferred to another Stalag for all the trouble he regularly creates in the camp, but he doesn't dare to.

Because even though he is just an enemy prisoner and Klink would never admit it, Hogan is the only one – the only thing – that gives him a sense of security in this frightful world.

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_**End note:**__ I have to say that, even though the writers of the show obviously never intended it, Klink always somehow came off to me as a more sympathetic character than Hogan... _


	5. LeBeau

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

There was a time when life seemed so simple for Louis LeBeau. He had his plans already made out – he would open up his own restaurant and become a famous gourmet chef. Sure Paris was already full of such places, but there would always be room for one more, wouldn't it? The future that lay ahead of him looked bright. With hard work and dedication, he would become one of the most renowned chefs in all of Paris – no, France, even! The name _LeBeau_ would be synonymous with wonderful food that people would travel from afar to get a sample of.

It all seemed so simple.

Until the war came.

Of course, he joined up to fight, then, almost on the first day. The recruiting office was already full of young men like him when he arrived there, each and every one of them eager to do their part for France. There was a lot of talking and murmuring among the men as they waited, but the atmosphere was hopeful, optimistic even. The Germans had bitten off more than they could chew this time, because surely there was no way they could withstand the combined might of both France and the British Empire?

Granted, it wasn't how he had originally planned things, but that was okay too. He would do his duty and fend off those _Boche,_ and then resume his life from where he had left off. The restaurant could wait a little. There would be plenty of time for that later, right?

But despite all their efforts, the German war machine turned out to be unstoppable. The optimistic hope of those early days turned to dread, and one day, Nazi boots were marching on the streets of Amiens, Reims, and Lille.

For all it hurt, they might as well have been marching over his ripped-out, still beating heart.

Then those marching boots reached Paris. And it didn't take long before swastikas were hanging from the Louvre, SS officers were wining and dining in the fine restaurants along rue de Rivoli, and Vichy officials were residing in the Palais Bourbon.

LeBeau wasn't there to see it though. When France finally surrendered and the Germans occupied his beloved Paris, he was already a prisoner of war, which was probably just as well.

At least he didn't have to see the decay with his own eyes. He isn't sure he could have stomached it.

The promising future he imagined in those earlier days – the days that were not so far away, but felt an eternity ago, now – had turned into a bleak nightmare. His France – under siege, invaded, occupied by foreign forces. It would never be the same again. How could it ever be?

His dreams had flown away, leaving him stranded. There was nothing to look forward to now. Nothing to hope for, nothing that could ever make things right again.

Being in Stalag 13, locked up behind barbed wire like a caged animal, only made things worse. He felt so useless and powerless. He could do nothing to help France – absolutely _nothing_ as the filthy _Boche_ trampled her under their steel toed boots and stole her treasures and subjugated her people.

In the camp, there was little access to news from the front. On occasion their Kommandant would, with ill-hidden glee, offer them details of the undefeatable Wehrmacht's latest victories as he pranced before them at roll call. The prisoners grumbled at this, some brave ones even hooted and booed, but in the end it was all nothing but an impotent show of meaningless defiance from men who had been turned into stingless drones.

The atmosphere was depressing. Even more so when new prisoners arrived in the camp. Dejectedly, many still in shock, the newcomers would speak of the mighty war machine they had encountered – the swelling ranks of German soldiers, the seemingly endless lines of Panzer tanks, the swarms of Stukas and Messerschmitts that blackened out the sun.

There was no way that Germany would not win this war. If France had fallen, then all must certainly be lost. LeBeau was certain of it.

Sometimes he wondered if he would ever get to go back home again. Did he even _want_ to return to an occupied France at all? He wasn't sure. But one thing he did know, and that was that there would never be a restaurant for him in Paris. There was no way he would ever cook for the _Boche_.

Ever.

No, that dream died along with his freedom.

And as the days slowly went by, the last shreds of the tiny bit of hope that he had managed to cling to went the same way.

And then there was nothing left. Just bitterness and hate and anger.

Until Colonel Hogan arrived in Stalag 13.

At first, LeBeau had laughed – yes, _laughed_ straight into the Colonel's face – as the man lined out his idea for a covert operation based in Stalag 13. _What did this arrogant American think he was playing at? Didn't he realize it would all be futile in the end?_ But as everything slowly came together before LeBeau's eyes, something started to grow inside of him.

He wasn't sure what it was at first, so he just ignored it and went along with Hogan's plans. Went out on secret missions, even cooked delicious food to bribe the guards with, despite his previous resolution. Did some odds and ends, here and there. Whatever he could to help out.

It took a while until he finally recognized what that odd, foreign thing inside of him was.

And for that, the American colonel will always have his undying loyalty. Because Hogan was the one to give him back the hope that he had lost along the way.

Hope. For France, and for himself.


	6. Burkhalter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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General Albert Burkhalter doesn't consider himself a man who will suffer fools lightly. And that is why being in Klink's simpering, bumbling presence fills him with disgust.

This time is no different. Klink is standing in front of him making up pathetic excuses for his latest failure, and Burkhalter can feel a headache coming on. Most of all he would like to order the colonel onto the next train to Stalingrad, but as Klink so often reminds him, he _does_ have a perfect record, something that no other POW camp Kommandant can pride himself on. This reflects positively on Burkhalter as well, so he lets Klink remain in his position, despite his obvious shortcomings.

Still, Klink is an embarrassing disgrace to the Wehrmacht. If it weren't for his aristocratic background, the man would barely even have been worthy of serving at the Eastern front.

But with the Wehrmacht being what it is, placing value on social standing and family, Klink is now a colonel. Burkhalter considers it nothing short of an insult to be forced to call a man like that his fellow officer.

No, being an officer isn't what it used to be.

And neither is being a sergeant, he thinks with another wave of disgust as Schultz suddenly barges through the door, short of breath and his huge stomach heaving after the short sprint he has made to the Kommandant's office.

Burkhalter knows that they are scraping the bottom of the barrel these days, but it's still unsettling seeing what the Wehrmacht has become, accepting men like this into their ranks. The Wehrmacht should be their country's finest, a manifestation of all the military values that the armed forces have traditionally adhered to. It shouldn't consist of men like Schultz who barely knows which end of his rifle goes _boom_ and can't do even one push-up without falling flat on his face.

The fat sergeant swallows a few times, and then he stammers forth an unconvincing explanation as to why he wasn't on his post like he should have been when the Gestapo car visiting the camp suddenly exploded. Klink berates him, calling him a fool as he shakes his riding crop around in a ridiculous display of authority.

_Clowns. Both of them. _

He barely listens as the two keeps yammering back and forth. Instead, he mournfully wishes he were back serving on the front again, as he was before he got wounded and taken out of active duty. The front. The place of a real officer. Like in the Great War, when men were still men and officers were still officers. Not like today, when it seems like anyone can lay claim to being either.

It isn't until Major Hochstetter's voice pierces through his wistful memories of better days long gone that his mind, reluctantly, returns to the present.

The ferocious little man is angry, throwing accusations around, mainly in Hogan's direction. Which is, of course, ridiculous, considering that the man is a prisoner. The Gestapo major does not think so, however, and starts to berate Klink for being blind to what goes on in his camp. Spittle is flying from his mouth as he rages on and on.

Burkhalter can't stand Major Hochstetter. The man has no self-control, no dignity in the way he carries himself. He reminds him of a little yapping lapdog who thinks that he can scare the bigger dogs away if he simply barks loud enough. A rabies-infested, mad dog. Just another man who has no concept of military values whatsoever.

Of course, Major Hochstetter isn't actually military, even if it sometimes seems like he wants to purport himself that way. But in the end he is nothing but a Gestapo official, a common _thug_. They all are, the Gestapo. It's disgusting and disgraceful how such men can control so much of present-day Germany.

They're nothing like the Wehrmacht, even in its present decadent shape.

Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that the Gestapo has encroached so far on Wehrmacht's rightful territory. Not with the way that the German officers of today have grown weak and indecisive. These days, none of the traditional military values – bravery, valour, sacrifice – mean what they used to, which is something he personally can't understand. If such values no longer have any meaning, then what point is there to being an officer? What else separates them from the common rabble? But he sees the decay every time he is around High Command, in how the officers will rather vie for position among themselves, play political games to further their own agendas, and ingratiate themselves with Hitler and his closest adjutants.

These unworthy displays disgust him.

He can't fathom why Hitler surrounds himself with men like this. Then again, he suspects that even Hitler doesn't quite understand what it means to be an officer, having come out of the Great War as only a corporal. Not that Burkhalter would ever breathe a word of these thoughts to a living soul, of course, not even to his own wife. One never knows who might be listening in.

Still, he can't deny that wherever he turns there is this foul-smelling _rot,_ in the military and in the officers alike.

His gaze turns to the American colonel standing in front of Klink's desk, clutching his cap in his hands. The man is speaking now, trying to pacify both Klink and Major Hochstetter.

Burkhalter watches Hogan intently. He has seen this game before, but it never ceases to fascinate him. The American acts cowed and demure before Klink as he apologizes for his men's inappropriate behaviour, easily defusing the Kommandant's ire. As he turns to Hochstetter, his demeanor switches into innocent ignorance as he deflects the Major's accusations with a calm, rational explanation that makes Hochstetter look like a fool for barging into the camp accusing the prisoners of sabotage.

Klink and Hochstetter soon seem to have had enough with Hogan and instead continue to bicker between themselves like little children. And it is in that moment, when the imminent danger has successfully been derailed, that Hogan's gaze sweeps towards Burkhalter and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments.

There is none of the previous humility or ignorance in those eyes now, but instead a cold, calculating stare as the true man behind the charade briefly resurfaces. Burkhalter knows that Hogan is measuring him, judging him for future encounters and he feels a small flutter of excitement at that. The man is standing among his captors, and yet there is none of that weakness, that despicable _softness_, that he sees in his fellow German officers. No, Hogan is unafraid and defiant, his spirit unbreakable.

It is at times like this when Burkhalter wishes that Hogan was on their side. Or that the American colonel was not a prisoner and that he himself never sustained the battle wounds that removed him from active duty, because then there would have been a chance, no matter how infinitesimal, that the two of them would one day get to meet and match their skills in battle, man to man.

But as that will never happen, Burkhalter can appreciate the fact that he has finally found someone worthy of his respect. Even if he is an enemy, there is contentment in the knowledge that there is at least one other man in Germany who knows what it truly _means_ to be an officer.


	7. Carter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

Sergeant Andrew Carter knows what people think about him; he isn't a stupid man, even if that is precisely just what many seem to believe.

But that's okay. He's used to it, after all. Already in school, he was considered a bit slow and dim-witted, despite his grades being about average. Perhaps it was his tendency to speak before thinking, or maybe his stubborn insistence to always believe good of others – even when those others threw mud or rocks at him in the schoolyard – that made everyone think that that boy Andrew sure had to be a few screws short of a toolbox.

It never bothered him that much, though. If his fellow classmates snickered when the teacher asked him something he didn't really know but still made his best to answer, well, at least he was able to make others laugh, right? So it couldn't be all _that_ bad.

And if his fellow students pinned funny signs onto the back of his jacket, saying things like "I left my brain at home" or "Kick the stupid", well, that wasn't very nice but kids are kids, right?

That Carter didn't seem to care that much about the teasing and the name-calling, or the occasional shove, only seemed to serve as further provocation, however. So things escalated, slowly, until one day the head bully of the class and some of his friends ganged up on him on the way back home from school, which ended with a hospital visit for Carter.

After that, the bullying mostly ceased. Perhaps the other kids realized that things had gone too far, so they left him alone. That was alright with Carter, though, who had just discovered a brand new and exciting interest after receiving a chemistry set from his father during his stay in the hospital.

And the initial fiddling soon grew into an outright passion. Trying to predict the colour changes as various liquids were mixed with each other, or watching the tiny bubbles in a simmering concoction float around could keep him occupied for hours. To him, it was fascinating and mesmerizing like nothing he had ever encountered before.

He soon excelled in chemistry in school, the only subject where his knowledge clearly stood out from the rest of the students. Unfortunately his chemistry teacher didn't much appreciate Carter's talent and apt interest. Perhaps the old, very traditional man simply felt threatened when he discovered that in some areas, one of his students actually knew more than he did. So instead of supporting his most brilliant pupil, he ridiculed Carter and called him, disdain in his voice, a "smart guy".

As time went by, his classmates started to get interested in girls. At first, it was only the more popular boys in school who would occasionally be seen with a girl on their arms, and to many this was odd – they clearly remembered all those remarks made not long ago about how girls were silly and stupid. But it didn't take too long until the other boys started to mimic this behaviour, and soon the opposite sex was the main focus of many a schoolyard conversation.

Carter, on his hand, never had much luck with girls. There was one girl he brought home one day when his parents weren't home; she seemed nice and wore pigtails and a white cotton dress with blue polka dots on it. He didn't often have anyone over to visit him, so he was anxious to show her his little makeshift laboratory in the basement and the latest experiments he was working on. But the more he talked, the less interested she appeared, and eventually she said she had to leave because her mother was coming home soon and she had to be home before dinner.

The next day, Carter ran into the girl with the pigtails again. She was standing in the middle of a group of her friends, and he wanted to go up to her and say hi and maybe something else, but was stopped in his tracks as the girls suddenly started to point at him, snickering and giggling. He heard the words "weirdie" and "wackie" being whispered among them. The girl with the pigtails who had seemed so nice at first only turned her nose up at him, and then left with her cohort of friends at her skirt tails.

No, Carter didn't understand why his classmates all seemed to find girls so great.

But life changed, in more ways than one. And before they all knew it, the world was at war.

He signed up because he was convinced it was the right thing to do. Many others did as well, so he wasn't alone.

Even if there were some guys he sort of wished hadn't.

The claim that the more things change, the more they stay the same, turned out to hold true for the Air Force as well. Once more, Carter found himself the object of ridicule and hazing. Maybe it was because he was so used to it from his school days that he didn't know how to make others back off, or because his character somehow invited it, but it didn't take long for him to become the usual butt of the jokes in his unit.

Sure, most fellows were nice enough – they did risk their lives together after all, so there was certainly a strong sense of camaraderie among them – but the barbs about his mental capabilities and the comments that threw doubt on his skills were always festering in the background.

But Carter adjusted to the situation. He had always had a talent for doing just that.

He was forced to adjust again, though, when he was shot down and captured, and then placed in Stalag 13.

However, it wasn't until Colonel Hogan came to the camp that Carter realized that there was something that had been missing in his life. But as he stood one day before the colonel explaining how his home-made bombs and detonators worked, and demonstrated (small-scale, of course) the effectiveness of his best explosives, there was _something_ in Hogan's eyes as he watched the demonstration and the same _something_ in his voice, as he occasionally asked for clarification on one thing or the other. Something that Carter had never encountered before.

And that _something_ he had never really missed because he had never had it. Not until now. And this, Carter will never forget – that Hogan was the first one to show him true, honest _respect_.


	8. Hilda

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

For Hilda, life is usually as full of boring routine as for the prisoners. She spends the best part of the day occupied with dull paperwork, then bikes home – or if the weather is bad, Herr Schnitzer might give her a ride back home in his car – to spend what's left of the evening reading, knitting, or writing letters. Or maybe, when she's in a glum mood, merely staring out the window, quietly reminiscing.

Stalag 13 is a dreary place. She almost regretted having accepted the position as secretary of the camp Kommandant already on her first day at work. But there is one thing that makes her stay, despite everything: this persistent ray of light that never fails to cut through the gray clouds, no matter how dark and heavy they hang in the sky.

His name is Hogan. Robert E. Hogan, even. She doesn't know what the "E" stands for; he's never told her that much; she's only read it on the nametag on his jacket.

Robert E. Hogan.

She sees the name whenever he bends close to kiss her on the cheek or whisper loving words of adoration into her ear on his way to the Kommandant's office, the faint scent of his aftershave lingering in the air when he's gone. Someday, she thinks she might ask him what that "E" stands for.

Or perhaps not.

After all, the two of them don't really know each other, and she is not a bold girl. Nor is she stupid, and she knows that for Colonel Hogan, she is merely a distraction. Someday, when the war is over and the prisoners of Stalag 13 are repatriated, he will leave the camp without looking over his shoulder. Maybe give her a kiss or two before he goes, together with a promise to write, which they both know that he will never keep.

She wonders if the American colonel has a girlfriend back home. Perhaps a wife, even? She doesn't think so, but sometimes when she handles the outgoing mail from the prisoners, she is tempted to rummage though the envelopes, to look for Hogan's handwriting and rip the letter open. Just to see whom he's writing. He's never told her anything about his family; another empty, blank slot in the puzzle that is Hogan.

She knows that if she truly meant anything to him, he would tell her these things, share his memories of the people that are important to him. But this, he never does.

In the end, she doesn't know a thing about Hogan. And perhaps that is just as well.

After all, there is no future for the pair of them. No matter the outcome of the war.

Of course, the colonel is handsome and charming like few others. When he looks straight into her eyes with that appreciative smile on his face, this warm, tingling feeling wells up inside of her. So she indulges him, plays along with him, allows herself be charmed by his stunning wit and dashing appearance.

But that is all there is to it – games and stolen kisses and whispered words of sweet nothings – and all that it can ever be. She can never let Hogan truly win her heart. Like most pretty girls, she is all-too-familiar with the ways some unscrupulous men will try to charm a beautiful woman. Men who will say anything to a pretty face, men who will promise the world but, in the end, offer only lies and deceit.

_Casanovas_, some call them. _Don Juans_. Young that she is, she has enough experience with such men to know that Hogan is one of them. The kind of man that her mother always warned her about.

One day, or so she likes to think, the man of her dreams will cross her path. Perhaps he will be a dashing, unmarried German officer coming for a visit to this Stalag. The camp has seen many officers come and go over the years, but few of them could be called dashing. She suspects that many of them weren't unmarried either, even if that didn't stop them from acting like it when Klink introduced them to his secretary.

But until that day comes, she will continue to let herself be taken in by the American colonel. She doesn't have it in her to push him away, because he is handsome and attractive and for that other reason that she's never told Hogan about, and that she never will because she knows that the American wouldn't like it.

Still, Colonel Hogan reminds her of her brother. Her dear Friedrich – a captain in the Wehrmacht, a proud officer, and currently a prisoner of war somewhere in America.

They both have the same twinkle in their eye, the same almost boyish charm that belies their age, and a will that can move armies. The first day she saw Colonel Hogan, his likeness to Friedrich made her freeze in mid-motion. The face, the body language, the smile, the confident manners – it was all so _him_. She wonders briefly what Hogan and her brother would think of each other should they one day meet. For some reason, she thinks that they would either really like or really hate each other.

Perhaps the latter is more likely, though. Maybe there isn't room enough to accommodate more than one such man at a time.

It's not like it matters anyway. The two of them will never meet, of course. Still, there is some irony in the situation – that these men, so alike, should each be a prisoner of war in the very country that the other man calls his own. A bizarre trading of places, considering that both men would have been so much happier back home.

But war is sometimes strange like that.

She remembers the day when her family received word about Friedrich being a POW in America. Despite the worry at the news and the concern for his welfare, there was still an immense relief in the knowledge that he was safe, that he was out of the war. Part of her felt like a traitor for thinking like that, for being happy that her brother was no longer able to fulfill his duty to protect his Fatherland, but she didn't care.

She wonders if Colonel Hogan has a sister, and if the same unpatriotic thoughts went through her head when she learned of her brother's capture. Again, this is something she will never know.

Almost three years have passed now, and she misses Friedrich terribly, sometimes so much that it hurts. He is her only sibling, and perhaps that is why they've always been so very close, like best friends. The letters from him take weeks, sometimes even months, to make it home to Hammelburg, and ugly black dots from disapproving censors always mar them. Sometimes his letters arrive in batches, having been held up for some reason she is never told.

In the drawer of her desk, she keeps a picture of Friedrich. It's a military, very formal photograph of him in full uniform. Still, his unruly dark hair stubbornly refuses to conform to the seriousness of the situation, and there is a hint of mischief under that obligatory stern expression. He is every inch the handsome man who has gone through life charming most everyone in his path, men and women alike.

However, neither the letters nor the picture is enough to fill the painful emptiness that his long absence has created in her. And that's why she never refuses Colonel Hogan, why she never has the heart to turn him away.

Because even though her brother might be on the other side of the world, whenever Hogan is there with her, Friedrich doesn't feel so hopelessly far away.

* * *

_**End note: **__The original plan was for this to be the last chapter of this story, but since inspiration unexpectedly struck, there'll be more characters added to it. _


	9. Tiger

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

For Tiger, tiredness is a normal state. It's not the kind of temporary lack of energy that can be restored with a good night's sleep, but this sort of weary feeling that goes all the way to the bone. Sometimes she wonders if it will ever go away, or if it will remain with her always, even when she's an old wrinkled woman with gray hair.

If she lives that long, that is. Being a leader in the underground isn't usually conducive to having a long life.

Still, it's not herself she's mainly worrying about. After all, she knows the risks and has accepted them; she did even as she took on her first mission of carrying radio parts to an underground cell in Lyon.

No, it's all those others she keeps thinking about. Those young girls and boys, some not even out of their teens, that she has sent to their deaths. It's their faces that haunt her as she lies in bed trying to sleep despite being wide-awake, their voices that whisper in her ear when she's alone.

Of course, just like her, they also knew the risks. Knew what could happen, what _would_ happen should they be caught.

Still, it doesn't get any easier. And there is still a steady stream of those eager young faces coming in, each belonging to someone willing to risk their life for the cause.

Part of her is glad of it, despite everything. Because if they didn't come, then... well, the thought is too depressing to contemplate.

But there are times when she wishes that it was just her and the other old-timers, that none of these young men and women would volunteer, so that she wouldn't have to send any more of them off to face possible capture, torture, and death.

The worst part is the wait. Not knowing whether their agent will return or not, and the horrible imaginations of what might have happened – is happening – to them should they not.

_It's not your fault_, the others will tell her. _They volunteered, they knew about the risks. It was their choice, no blame falls on you. _

She wishes she could believe that. But she can't. So she only nods in stiff acknowledgement, without speaking, whenever such a message is relayed to her, since she knows that she won't be able to get even a word out of her constricting throat.

But it won't be long before she will send out others. Young, inexperienced agents who've been given just enough information to carry out their mission, but none so vital that what they'd spill during a Gestapo interrogation can truly threaten their underground operation. Perhaps they'll come back. Most of the time they do. Perhaps they won't. And she'll spend another sleepless night full of the suffocating guilt that eats her from the inside out.

Of course, she never tells anyone about all this. She must keep strong, show a determinate front. Wallowing in guilt and self-doubt doesn't fit into that. Their underground cell needs a strong leader. Not someone who openly shows regret and doubts.

Too many lives are at stake for that.

_A strong, determinate front_, she keeps reminding herself. That's what she has to uphold, come hell or high water.

But the burden of command weighs heavy on her shoulders. It's like a constant weight pressing her down, sapping her of precious strength she can't afford to lose. The pressure never goes away; it occasionally lets off somewhat, but it's always there, always felt.

Perhaps she's already an old woman, she thinks. War has aged her, made her tired and weary. The youthful energy that used to course through her veins only a few years ago has now been drained from her. She never noticed it as it happened, but one day, when she was brought a report of three of their agents being shot by the Gestapo, she had just sat there unmoving, staring in front of her long after the reporting agent had left the room, suddenly noticing she was feeling as hollow as a carved-out log.

She doesn't know if that emptiness will ever be filled with anything. Perhaps it will remain as a gaping hole inside of her, a void constantly reminding her of what she has done. What she – and others – has lost.

At times she wonders if her longtime colleagues, those few who know her well, see through her charade. If they know that behind the strong front she keeps up, there is really nothing. Maybe they know, but choose not to say anything. Or maybe they have enough of demons of their own to struggle with to even notice hers.

It doesn't matter. She's a leader, and leaders have to be strong.

Sometimes – often – she wishes she could share her thoughts and feelings with someone. But there is no one – she can't confess these things to her fellow agents lest they lose faith, and she can't let those not in the underground know that she's part of it.

There's one exception to this, though. And that exception is Colonel Hogan.

They're in the same position. They're both leaders, they both operate in secrecy, and they both have many lives that depend on them. Too many lives, at times, she thinks.

She takes comfort in him, even if she knows that he has other women than her. But that's alright, or should be, because that's the way it is in the underground, too. When it all comes down to it, how can you wholly and fully promise yourself to another when you don't even know if you will survive your next mission? The underground cells are teeming with brief romances and hasty liaisons, entered into by men and women who have no way of knowing when their last day will be upon them. Their existence is so precarious that a lot of the time, there is only here and now.

She remembers one night when she was alone with Hogan, the two of them hiding in a cave as the SS was scouting the area for saboteurs. They both knew that if they were found, they'd be dead, so what did they have to lose?

She could smell the perfume of another woman on him. But she didn't comment on it, only dug her fingernails into his back as he lay over her and whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Perhaps she wanted to put her own mark on him, just like that other woman had. So she dug her fingernails in deeper, dug them in as the reek of the stale perfume overpowered her, making her choke.

As much as she might want to, Hogan will never be truly, exclusively hers. She knows it and has in some way accepted it. If she wants him at all, she will have to share. Just like he in turn has to share with some of the underground agents she works with.

She's never asked him about it, and he has never asked her either, but she thinks that he knows that there are others for her as well. Or at least suspects. Perhaps he prefers not knowing, or maybe he truly doesn't care.

But in the end, none of that really matters. As long as he comes back to her, she doesn't care about the other women he sees. Because it is only with him, that she doesn't have to pretend, doesn't have to keep up the front that she has to otherwise. Hogan is so strong, a never-ending reservoir of power. It's only when they're together that she can finally drop her facade for a little while, and allow herself to show weakness.

And it's alright, because he can be strong for both of them.


	10. Hochstetter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter has had a long and rather illustrious career. Sometimes almost _too_ long, he thinks, as he stands in Klink's office, listening to the fawning camp Kommandant's reassurances that he most _certainly_ will give the Gestapo any assistance they might require in order to find out who blew up the ammunitions dump.

Of course, it wasn't the kind of career that had been expected of him in his youth, not with a father who was a schoolteacher and wanted his son to walk in his footsteps.

However, the dull, routine life of a schoolteacher was not something that appealed to the young Hochstetter. Such a plebeian existence was simply not for him. But not knowing what it was that he actually wanted instead, he sort of drifted through life, ending up working as an administrative clerk, while secretly longing for something better. Something more glorious and exciting. Something where he would _matter_.

And that something did eventually come his way. He remembers those early days vividly, like a movie playing out before his inner eye, back when the Party was still nothing but a small fringe on the edge of society. Small, yes, but growing nonetheless.

And he had been there almost from the very start, listening breathlessly as a virtually unknown politician by the name of Hitler gave one of his first speeches. Hochstetter had immediately been taken in by the man, by the sheer passion and intensity with which he had spoken of a better society to come. A society that _they_ – those assembled in the small, murky room – would make happen.

From that day on, Hochstetter knew what he wanted to do with his life. He had finally found a meaning, something worth fighting for.

And fought he did. Figuratively as well as literally. There was opposition at first. Many did not like the new upstart, with his new ideas that challenged the old order. Some called him a lunatic, a crazy fanatic with delusions of grandeur. But Hochstetter knew better, and he was intent on proving Hitler's detractors wrong.

Of course, it took time. Time during which they fought in the streets – brawled like simpletons, even; assassinated those who stood in their way, slowly but surely paving the way to full control of Germany.

Glorious days indeed, filled with excitement and danger. Filled with the rush of power as the Party gained ground. And he was right there, in the middle of everything, as it all happened, as history was written right before their very eyes.

No, as _they_ wrote it.

And to think that his father had wanted him to become a simple schoolteacher. The thought was ludicrous, an insult even. No, he had found his true calling in life within the Party.

Of course, there wasn't danger and opposition from the outside only, oh no. Some of the most dangerous adversaries could be found in their own midst. And there were purges within the Party, within the Gestapo, as members tried to frame, assassinate, and implicate each other. Some disappeared, never to be heard from again, others were found in the grey hours of the early morning with their throats sliced open, while yet others were taken away to stand trial for real or imagined crimes against the Reich.

Those were dangerous times, to be sure. But Hochstetter fought with tooth and nail, clawing his way up through the Gestapo ranks as those weaker fell by the wayside. He was determined to come out on top, as a victor, not one of those countless victims who were too incompetent or unfit to make it.

Yes, dangerous times, but exciting nevertheless. It was as if the constant danger and looming threat to his life only made him feel all the more alive. There was no way he could ever go back to his old life now. For the first time, he was truly _living_, not just existing like all those other bleak shadows of men with their empty and meaningless lives that would pass him by in the streets.

He was finally important. People feared him, and with good reason, because he had the power of the Party to back him up. He enjoyed the glimmer of fear he would see in the eyes of people as they spotted his ominous black Gestapo uniform complete with the distinct armband swastika. And he revelled in the terror apparent on the faces of those who had been brought in for interrogation and knew their days were reckoned.

Yes, his life back then was like a never-ending rush of power, coursing through his veins and giving him a feeling of being invincible. _Unconquerable_.

However, that feeling eventually faded as the Party cemented their position of power, and the opposition eventually all but died down.

Nowadays, no one – well, not within Germany anyway – is openly questioning the right of the Party to rule the country, not since many years now. There are no longer any internal enemies of importance left to fight, no opposition to be dealt with. The days of having to fight for survival and power are long gone.

And so are the days when he determinedly fought his way up through the ranks, having to make good use of every little bit of cunning and intelligence given him. Now, the current command chain is stable, some might even call it fossilized, consisting of officers who enjoy Hitler's trust and support. There is little, if any, room for advancement anymore. His best bet is to simply wait for the ones above him to reach the age of retirement, and that grates him.

Not even the thrill of seeing people afraid of him is what it used to be. He's too used to it now, the automatic bowing and scraping and _jawohl, Herr Major_ from people desperate to placate him. Nowadays, it disgusts him rather than excites him. There is simply no _challenge_ anymore.

To make matters even worse, now he's stuck investigating simple acts of sabotage.

_How pathetic. _

He is about to turn on his heel and leave, when suddenly Colonel Hogan comes barging into Klink's office, barely even acknowledging the Gestapo major.

Hochstetter eyes him suspiciously. He can't for the life of him understand what this man is doing here. Or why the insolent American always seems to magically appear out of thin air whenever he visits Stalag 13, for that matter. But regardless of all that, there is a sudden, very tangible rush of _something_ within him as Hogan enters. Something familiar that he used to feel in those days of old, as they, Hitler's loyal followers, made the Party rise from the gutters.

Those days of fighting for power and position that are now over, their glory having faded to leave only the dull routine of everyday life. The very kind of life he always feared, and desperately sought to avoid in his refusal to become a schoolteacher.

_No, not yet_, he corrects himself. _He doesn't lead that kind of life just yet._ Because there is still one challenge – one precious challenge – left. He _knows_ that Hogan is, one way or the other, involved in the frequent sabotage acts in Hammelburg. Yes, he is certain of it, and he intends to prove it one day. No matter what it's going to cost him.

Hogan might be infuriating. Annoying and antagonizing. Still, in a time which isn't anything compared to what it used to be, the American colonel is the only one to offer Hochstetter enough of a challenge to truly make him feel alive again.


	11. Marya

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

It's strange, Marya thinks, how the winters here in Germany feel so much colder than those in her hometown at the Russian border. Even though she knows the winters are in fact much less harsh here.

But she still _feels_ colder. At least on the inside.

So she pulls her fur coat closer around her, and continues to slowly trudge through the snow.

Yes, it's strange how the winters back home made her feel cold on the outside, but still warm on the inside, while here in Germany, it's the opposite.

As a young girl she always liked the snow, even though it heralded another harsh winter with an uncertain food supply. It didn't matter; she still found its glistening whiteness beautiful.

Stretching out before her is nothing but a formless mass of white. The landscape has lost its usual features, its shapes and edges having been wiped out by the massive snowfall that covers everything like a thick blanket.

She stops walking and just stands there for a while, hesitating.

She doesn't really know why she's even out here. It's not like she's going anywhere or has anywhere she needs to be. But something within her urged her to escape to this open, snow-covered vastness, far away from everyone and everything. Perhaps she just needs some time by herself. To think. To forget. To remember.

The falling snow makes her feel sad. It wasn't always like that, though. She used to have happy memories associated with snow – the carefree days of childhood playing, or the Christmases spent with her family, back when her grandmother was still alive.

But most importantly, snow makes her think of Nikolai; a lingering memory, old now, but still as vivid as the day it took place. The two of them, caught by surprise by a violent snowstorm and forced to seek refuge in a barn.

They were young then, laughing, their cheeks red from the freezing wind as they pushed the gate open and slipped inside.

It was bitingly cold. So they sat there in the barn together, huddled close for warmth, with the storm howling outside and snow flaking off their shoulders and hair. Just her and him.

They kissed. She can still remember how it felt, his lips ghosting over hers.

Yes, it was bitingly cold, but she was warm inside. She shuffled closer to him, her body pressing against his.

But he gently pushed her away, and placed his hands on her cheeks, tilting her face so that their eyes met.

_No, Marya_, he said. _Let's not do anything more than this._ He smiled. _You're so beautiful, so... _pure_. And I want you to remain that way._

She had thought, then, that it was a rather odd thing to say. But now, she knows that she will never forget those words said in that barn, so long ago.

Nikolai is gone now, another victim of the war. She doesn't know what happened to him, just that he never returned. Still, there's an image rising within her whenever she thinks about his absence, an image of him lying on his back, his unseeing eyes staring up into the sky at the snow silently falling down on him, as blood pools around him and turns white into crimson red. It's a solemn, sad picture of yet another meaningless death.

She pushes it away, lets it sink deep into the recesses of her mind, from which she knows it will resurface time after time again; she's always powerless to stop it.

So much has changed since the war came, anyway. Sometimes she wonders how much longer she will be able to keep everything up. There is a man, a Major Stahler, waiting for her back there, in the cottage that is no longer visible against the horizon.

She wishes there wasn't.

So many men. From the Wehrmacht, the SS, even the Gestapo. She has lost count of them long ago. But all of them so easy to draw vital military information from.

_Men are such blabbermouths_, she thinks. Always willing to tell a woman anything as long as she's beautiful and charming enough.

She wonders what her family would think if they knew what she was really doing here in Germany. Would they be ashamed of her? Renounce her? Even hate her?

Better not to know. Her own self-disgust is hard enough to live with. So is the feeling of being covered in unspeakable filth that never disappears, no matter how much she washes and scrubs herself afterwards.

Still, she has to do this. She has to, because to the Germans, everyone she's ever cared about is an _Untermensch_. A sub-human. And she can't bear to think of what would happen should Germany one day win the war.

So she continues to smile, charm and seduce. It's a small sacrifice for the information she gains in return, after all. And she's good at it, too. No man ever refuses her.

Well, that's not really true. There _is_ one man who does.

An image of that dark-haired American colonel floats up before her inner eye. Yes, Hogan has refused her, turned her advances down.

She remembers being confused when he did, even if she didn't show it. Because he was the first man she'd ever encountered to do such a thing.

No, wait, that's not true either. There _was_ in fact another time when that very thing happened.

_It was bitingly cold. So they sat there in the barn together, huddled close for warmth, with the snow howling outside and snow flaking off their shoulders and hair. Just her and him. _

_They kissed. She can still remember how it felt, his lips ghosting over hers. _

_Yes, it was bitingly cold, but she was warm inside. She shuffled closer to him, her body pressing against his. _

_But he gently pushed her away, and placed his hands on her cheeks, tilting her face so that their eyes met. _

No, Marya_, he said. _Let's not do anything more than this. _He smiled._ You're so beautiful, so... _pure_. And I want you to remain that way.

Pure. She had been pure back then.

Not the way she is now.

And maybe that is why she still continues to make advances on Hogan, is irresistibly drawn to him like a bee to honey, even though he refuses her every time.

Because he's the only one to ever turn her advances down. Just like Nikolai did, during that snowstorm, so long ago. And for a few fleeting, precious moments, it makes her feel pure again, all filth having been rinsed off. Just like she felt in that old barn at the Russian border, so far away.

She looks around, looks at the snow that has already covered her tracks. Wiped them out, like they never existed.

_Pure. _

_Just like the new-fallen snow. _

She closes her eyes for a brief moment, then turns and walks back.


	12. Langenscheidt

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

It's strange, Corporal Karl Langenscheidt thinks, how it sometimes seems like it's always winter in Stalag 13. Of course, it's a silly notion, because if nothing else he does remember last summer, but whenever he thinks about the camp, the image his inner mind conjures always pictures it with snow on the ground and frost on the windows.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself as he turns the corner of Barracks Five and continues on his usual patrol round. The white of his breath is just barely visible in the dark. It's a beautiful, quiet winter night, and the snow crunches beneath his boots as he walks down the all-too familiar path.

The camp is so quiet on nights like these. Not anything like the usual boisterous place it is during daytime, with prisoners milling around, chattering loudly, or playing their own, considerably rougher version of some sport or the other.

He likes the quiet. It gives him time – room – to think. To just be alone for a while sorting out his thoughts. Ponder the observations he's made during the day or make sense out of all the ideas swirling in his mind. Perhaps there'll be something useful in there, something he can pull from and use for...

He stops himself. No, he's no longer living that life. He's a soldier of the Luftwaffe now, a part of the war machine that is the Wehrmacht. No longer the peaceful man making his living by writing novels. He no longer has use for that part of himself always quietly making observations on the people around him and analyzing their words, deeds and interactions. The part trying to understand and break down human nature into words, in order to breathe life into the characters in his writings.

One of his favourite pastimes – before the war – used to be sitting in a bar or cafe somewhere with a notebook in hand, secretly observing the people around him. Listening as they conversed, argued, joked, and bantered. It's amazing how much one can learn about people by simply watching them from the outside, he thinks. How much they give away without meaning to, or even realizing that they're doing it.

But the war put an end to all that, and he no longer has the time nor the opportunity to write down his observations. The Luftwaffe frowns upon such activities anyway. Keeping a diary is enough to get a man shot these days. But he thinks that once the war is over, he'll have time to write again. Dedicate himself to becoming a real, professional writer, not one who merely gets by. Perhaps even start his own publishing company.

_Yeah, a publishing company._ He'd love that.

Maybe someday, he hopes. Once the war comes to an end.

Right now, though, there is too much else to worry about, so many horrible uncertainties to deal with. Such as whether his parents and sisters are safe from the Allied bombings that so frequently strafe Hammelburg these days. Or whether his brothers will make it back alive from the front.

Germany will not win this war, of this he's certain. And, treacherous as he knows such thoughts to be, he thinks that is just as well. Yes, secretly he _hopes_ that the Allies will be the victors, so that all this madness can finally be over.

But he still worries about that day, when Stalag 13 is liberated. Maybe the takeover will be peaceful – he desperately wishes that it will – knowing Colonel Klink, the man will most likely surrender the camp before a single shot is fired, once the Allied tanks come rolling in through the front gates. Perhaps he'll even surrender his command to Colonel Hogan before that happens.

Or maybe a phalanx of fanatical SS soldiers will take over the camp and order the guards to hold it against the enemy, to the last man.

But whatever happens, if he survives the liberation, he'll become a POW himself, forced into a life behind barbed wire. For how long, he doesn't know. He can only hope that the Allies treat their prisoners well, but he has no way of knowing that.

And what will happen to Germany, once everything is over? Will she ever rise from the ashes of war and foreign occupation? Will she once more become a place worth living in? Or will her people remain poor and destitute, devoid of all hope?

He won't know any of this, not until the war is over.

In the meantime, while waiting for the inevitable, he tries to occupy his straying mind by observing the prisoners, Colonel Hogan and his closest men in particular, and how they interact with each other; the role each of them assumes in the group, either deliberately or subconsciously. They fit together so well, all of them.

And as he watches them, he sees other things, too. Unbeknownst to the POWs, he actually _knows_ part of what's going on. Not the full extent of it, of course; the prisoners are far too smart and careful for that, but bits and pieces, here and there. And based on that, he has drawn his own conclusions.

They're so ingenious, he thinks, in how they manage to fool the guards and keep Kommandant Klink out of the loop. How they can do what they do from within a prison camp is nothing short of amazing. How seemingly ordinary, simple men can pull off such extraordinary feats.

But what he finds most fascinating isn't this, though. No, the most striking thing is the place that Colonel Hogan occupies among his fellow prisoners. Perhaps the man isn't even aware of the full extent of it himself, but his men rely on him so heavily – for strength, for support, for reassurance. For _everything_.

The American colonel is their fixed point in a precarious existence, like a big, firmly rooted oak tree in a storm, or the only piece of floatation in a raging see. The men all lean on him, cling onto him. Not physically, of course, but emotionally and mentally. In a hostile land, where their futures are so uncertain, he's the support they all need to get through. As long as he's there, they can convince themselves that everything will be fine, that all will work out. They draw strength from his presence, so much that sometimes he wonders if there is anything left for Hogan himself.

But he never says anything about his observations, merely stands quietly at his post like a proper guard should, watching the prisoners in fascination. Because they're clinging so firmly, so tightly, like their lives depend on it.

And, as Langenscheidt came to realize one day, so is he.

Because the prisoners aren't the only ones with an uncertain future, nor are they the only ones who need to borrow someone else's strength to get through the day and the unknowables of tomorrow.

He needs someone to lean on as well. And he likes to think of Hogan as that man, because he can make almost anything happen if he wants to. He's the one truly in control of what goes on in this camp, after all.

And more than anything, Langenscheidt wants to believe that Hogan will keep them all safe until the end of the war.

* * *

_**End note:**__ A while ago, I was at the local library looking for grammar books to brush up a bit on my German. I found one that looked very comprehensive, but it was really heavy and unwieldy, and I wasn't sure whether it was worth the effort of dragging the beast of a book back home with me. As I stood there hesitating and flipping the pages back and forth, I noticed that it said _Langenscheidt_ on the cover. And like any sane HH fan, my immediate thought was of course_, OMG, it's a SIGN!_ ;) So I ended up borrowing the book. And found out that Langenscheidt is a huge publishing company in Germany. Since then, I always wanted to write something that played with the possibility that our favourite German corporal might have gone into publishing after the war. (And for the record, the story isn't meant to imply that he is behind that particular company; it was founded long before our Langenscheidt would have even been born anyway.) _


	13. Frau Linkmeyer

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

As Gertrude Linkmeyer gets ready for bed, she surreptitiously steals a glance into the mirror. It's the same face that always stares back at her – plain and homely, most would even call it ugly. Perhaps there's another wrinkle here, or a few more gray hairs there, since last time.

Sighing, she sinks down into the chair in front of the small mirror poised on top of the old, hulking commode and slowly starts to pull the pins out of her hair, one by one. Reddish curls fall on her shoulders as she removes the little metal contraptions; in the dim light of her bedroom they look like a halo framing her face.

Gingerly, she reaches a hand up to touch her hair. It's soft and thick, and without a doubt the most beautiful part on her.

The _only_ beautiful part.

She lets her hand fall and looks away.

It's so silly, she thinks. She should be far too old by now to care about the image that the mirror shows. That image that she's never fully accepted, never really come to terms with. Because still, she secretly wishes that the face starting back at her were that of a beautiful woman, someone men would find attractive, someone they'd fall all over themselves for the opportunity to court.

Of course, such a thing never happened. Not even in the flower of her youth, despite her coming from a rich family of high social standing.

Those old humiliations are still fresh in her mind, as if she experienced them yesterday rather than decades ago. She vividly remembers that awful, sinking feeling in her stomach as she would stand there in her prettiest dress, as the gazes of the gathered men swept across the ballroom in search of a dance partner. And the tears that threatened to fall as those gazes always passed her by without stopping for even the briefest moment, as if she didn't exist, or was merely a part of the expensive furniture adorning the hall.

So she just stood there, trying to smile despite wanting to cry, trying to pretend that it was alright that the other girls all got to take their turns on the dance floor while she only stood there watching, wishing she was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

_If only once_, she would think. If only once, one of those men in their fancy uniforms would walk up to her and ask for a dance. She wouldn't ask for anything else, ever again.

But no one did. She was left standing there in a corner, silently cursing her unattractive appearance while everyone else enjoyed themselves.

Until one day, when one of the uniformed men – a short, stocky gentleman she had never seen before – detached himself from his group of friends, strode up to her, bowed, and asked for a dance.

His name was Otto Linkmeyer, and he was not handsome, nor a very good dancer for that matter, but he still made her feel like she was Cinderella with her prince as they swept across the dance floor.

It was so much fun; they kept dancing as the orchestra played waltz after waltz. She lost track of time and everything else, and it wasn't until the music finally stopped and he led her off the dance floor that she once more felt insecure and shy. How un-ladylike she must appear, laughing and grinning like a tavern wench, her hair untidy and sweat running down her face. If she was usually considered unattractive, what wouldn't she look like now? Reality came crashing down on her, and she just wanted to go hide somewhere, suddenly overcome by self-consciousness.

But Otto only winked at her. "Please don't stop smiling, _Fräulein_ Burkhalter. You have such a beautiful smile; I'd hate to see it go away."

She froze then, shocked. No one had ever used the word _beautiful_ while speaking about her. Ever.

A few months later, they were married.

It was a happy marriage. She loved Otto deeply, and her feelings were returned in full. Everyday, she felt such joy waking up next to her husband, knowing that she was not doomed to spend the rest of her life alone like she had always thought she would. No, in the end, there had been someone for her as well. She, the ugly duckling that had never had any suitors, not until Otto came along.

But the war took away her happiness. One dreadful day, she received a telegram, delivered by a stone-faced officer, informing her that Otto was reported missing in action on the Eastern front. After having read the message, she let if fall from her limp hands, the only thing she could think about being how eye-piercingly shiny the medals pinned to the officer's chest were.

Everything fell apart, then. Her Otto, missing. Gone. Dead? At first, she refused to believe it. Otto would come back to her, he _had_ to. Because he wouldn't leave her like this, he just wouldn't.

But as time passed, and lonely months turned into hopeless years, she realized that Otto was in fact gone. Her husband was not coming back. Not now, not ever.

Her heart died with him, the only love of her life. And she was certain that she was destined to spend the rest of her years alone, unloved. For a woman of doubtful charms like her, there would be no one to love her like Otto had. And no one she could ever love like him.

It was a heavy burden to bear, and it didn't get easier as vicious tongues gleefully whispered that maybe Otto wasn't dead at all, only pretending to be so he wouldn't have to come back to his hideous wife. Why had the poor man even married such a beast in the first place? The words stung, and left her bitter. She couldn't understand why people would say such mean-spirited things. They didn't know anything about her or her husband, what they had shared together.

Eventually, she resigned herself to fate. She'd live out her life as a lonely widow, relegated to merely reminiscing about the love she would never again experience.

Yes, she'd been convinced of that, until the day she visited Stalag 13.

It had been her brother Albert's idea; he was always trying to find a new husband for her, even though she could see the repulsion in the eyes of those would-be suitors as they came face to face with her. It didn't even hurt any longer; she was far too used to their reactions.

This time, Albert wanted her to meet the Kommandant of Stalag 13, a colonel by the name of Wilhelm Klink. She was not impressed with what she saw; how could this man ever compare to Otto? He couldn't even keep the Allied prisoners under his command in check, that much was obvious in how that despicable senior POW of his conducted himself.

_Colonel Hogan_, Klink muttered as a hasty introduction, embarrassed and flustered. She only acknowledged the American's presence with a curt nod, and then watched, appalled, the interaction of the two officers.

She immediately disliked Colonel Hogan. He didn't show the Kommandant any of the respect he was due, or behaved in a way that behooved either an officer or a POW. The man was loud, brash, and arrogant. It was a mystery why Colonel Klink tolerated his behaviour instead of throwing him in the cooler and melting down the key for spare metal.

No, she would be glad to get out of this camp. This visit had been nothing but a waste of time.

Or so she had thought, until later in the evening, when she was waiting in Colonel Klink's quarters for the man to join her for a dinner neither of them really wanted to partake in, and she suddenly heard soft voices coming from the outer office. Curious as to what was going on, she edged the door open and peeked out. She was shocked at the sight that greeted her – that awful American colonel, romancing Klink's little _tart_ of a secretary!

For a moment, she could only stare in surprise, horrified and disgusted. _She should report this._ A German woman, shamelessly letting herself be kissed and fondled by the enemy! _Unacceptable_.

But something stopped her and instead she just stood there, mesmerized, watching the undignified scene for several minutes, unable to turn away. It wasn't until the American had left the office that she finally closed the door and sank down into a nearby chair to stare in front of her, thoughts spinning madly.

And as those spinning thoughts eventually slowed down, one realization, sharp and clear as the day, materialized out of the jumbled disarray of her mind. _Even this awful man, Colonel Hogan, a prisoner of war in enemy land, was able to find love in a place where there should be none._

And if _he_ could do that, then why couldn't she? Didn't she deserve it, too?

The thought refused to leave her mind for the rest of the evening, and as she woke up the next morning, she decided that maybe, just _maybe_, she should indulge Albert and give this Colonel Klink a chance, after all.

She never reported what she saw that day, even though she knows that she should have. But she owes Colonel Hogan that much, because even though she would never breathe a word of it out loud to anyone, he was the man who gave her the determination to start looking for love again.


	14. Crittendon

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

Colonel Rodney Crittendon hasn't always been a colonel, of course. Even though he is now one of the finest, most outstanding officers in the RAF.

What few might suspect, though, is that he didn't always _want_ to be a colonel.

No, as a young boy, he had no such aspirations. On the contrary, war and military life were far from his mind. Instead, he drew inspiration from his mother. She was a housewife, but took great interest in flowers and floral arrangements. It was only a hobby, really, but she had such talent for it that townspeople frequently asked her to arrange the floral decorations for their weddings, funerals, and celebrations.

He enjoyed watching his mother work, as her nimble fingers placed a rose into a bouquet here, braided a lily into a wreath there. She was beautiful, his mother, and looked so regal as she sat there with flowers strewn all around her. Just like a princess, he would think. A fairy princess, from a land faraway.

Sometimes, he helped out. His mother smiled as he did, and gently instructed him in the art of combining flowers to bring out their different characteristics most effectively.

She always liked geraniums the best, though. They were rather inconspicuous flowers, neither very colourful nor particularly eye-catching, but had a sort of quiet, modest beauty to them. Often she would sneak one or two of them into a bouquet or wreath, but place them so that they weren't really visible among the other flowers, just because she liked them so much.

One day, so he decided, he would become a florist. His mother taught him that word, and he liked the sound of it and how it rolled off his tongue so smoothly. Yes, he would become a florist when he grew up.

But his world fell apart before that happened.

One day, his mother took ill. She coughed and coughed, and her face was so pale, almost translucent in its stark whiteness. _Tuberculosis_, the doctors said. It was a word he had never heard before, but it nevertheless sounded terrifying. He and his father visited her in the sanatorium once; he brought a bouquet of geraniums with him that he awkwardly placed at the rickety table along her bedside. She thanked him, and kissed him on the cheek before collapsing into a terrible coughing fit.

His mother never returned from the sanatorium.

At her funeral, he placed the wreath of geraniums he had made on her chest, tears silently spilling down his cheeks. He thought she looked like she was sleeping in the coffin, like she was about to rise up any minute and give him one of those smiles she reserved for him, and then playfully ruffle his hair.

But his mother remained still and unmoving, and the coffin with the geranium wreath was lowered down into the cold, hard earth.

From that day on, young Crittendon became a very solitary child. After school, he would go out into the hillside, and look down into the valley below. There was an old castle ruin close nearby; he would sit on the withered stone wall encircling it – the part that still hadn't fallen to pieces – and imagine that it was one of those castles pictured in his fairytale books, with a drawbridge and white towers stretching into the sky, one in each corner. The surrounding forest was the Royal Park, where he – a knight in shining armour – would ride his fine horses, hunting fleet-footed deer with bow and arrow. And beyond the hills in the distance lay the Forgotten Lands, where trolls and giants and other monsters roamed freely. Sometimes, they would stray into the human realm, but he would chase them off with sword in hand, bravely protecting their peaceful kingdom.

And of course, his mother, the fairy princess, would be living in the castle with him. They'd be together, always.

And so, he dreamed his boyhood away, living in the imaginary world he had created for himself where harsh reality wasn't allowed to enter and no sorrows could reach him. In his fantasies, he was invincible, able to perform any feat imaginable. There, he could be anything he wanted. Never again would he have to feel so utterly powerless as when he had watched his mother wither away on her sickbed, unable to do anything to help her.

However, one day his father suddenly announced that he was being sent off to military school. His son would become an officer; it was a proper career choice that suited the only son of a fine family such as theirs. Also, it would take that head of his out of the clouds and put his two feet back on the ground again.

It was a bit of a shock for poor Crittendon, who'd never wanted to join the army. But perhaps, he thought, as he sat on the train that would take him to England's most prestigious military school, an officer was a good choice after all. If his father wanted him to become one, he would not disappoint. In fact, he'd become the finest officer the British Kingdom had ever seen! Bravely doing his duty, just like the knights of old, upholding traditional values and chivalry.

Military education wasn't very fun, though. Nor was it very glamorous, and a far cry from what he had hoped for. He had imagined it would be more about being a fine, upstanding gentleman, skilled in horsemanship and fencing, and less about polishing uniform buttons until they could serve as mirrors. Lessons were for the most part boring, and he would instead sink into fantasies of what a fine officer he would become one day, defending the English crown and its King, standing up for justice and truth, just like those knights used to do that he had read about as a boy.

But one day, he was a lieutenant in the RAF. And for a brief moment, that struck him as slightly odd, because hadn't there once been something else he had wanted to be? But no matter, officers didn't complain or question, and he was an officer now, ready to embrace all the ideals and expectations that went with it.

His military career started off pretty slowly, he had to admit, but then took off as war broke out and quickly thinned out the ranks.

And before he knew it, he was a colonel. A fine rank to attain for a fine gentleman such as him. Still, there was something gnawing inside of him, something that wouldn't leave him alone, try as he might to push it aside. But as he never could put his finger on just what it was that was bothering him, he ignored it until the feeling faded into a misty vagueness.

Besides, he soon had other things on his mind to deal with. One unlucky day he was shot down over Germany, and ended up a POW. A sad fate for an upstanding officer like him, but he would simply have to make the best out of the situation, because that's what officers do, after all.

However, it wasn't until he met Colonel Hogan that he finally realized what that gnawing something inside him actually was.

He had expected Colonel Hogan, a fellow officer, to be on his side, to understand him. To play by the same rules. But the man was so different from Crittendon's idea of what a proper officer should be like; there was no common ground to stand on, no kinship at all. At the end of their encounter, Colonel Hogan had finally lost it and in a _very_ un-officerlike way – if he may say so himself – yelled angrily at him. Crittendon can't remember the exact words, but it was something along the lines of just why in the _world_ had he ever decided to become an officer, when he was apparently so much more interested in freaking _geraniums_?

And for a stunning moment, those words made all the old, protective barriers and self-delusions in Crittendon's mind fall away, letting the reality he had stubbornly kept at bay for so long wash over him.

Yes, why in the world _had_ he decided to become an officer, when there was something else he had always wanted instead? Before his inner eye he suddenly saw the painfully striking discrepancy between the man he was and the man he had once wanted to be.

_A florist. He had wanted to become a florist. Not an officer. _

_Once the war is over, _he had promised himself_,_ then,_ he'd retire from the RAF and become a florist. _

Yes, the English crown is still in need of his fine, gentlemanly services, but once the war is over and he can choose his own path with a clean conscience, that's what he's going to do.

And Crittendon realized that day that even though Colonel Hogan might not be much of an officer, he will still never forget about the man.

Because Hogan was the one who made him remember the dream he had forgotten, so long ago.


	15. Helga

_**Author's notes: **Thanks to konarciq, whose observations on Helga were what inspired this chapter.  
_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

* * *

There are times Helga feels guilty. Guilty that she never turned out to be the kind of daughter that her parents wanted.

But she just couldn't be. Besides, there was always so much else that was wrong when she grew up that it seems like an insignificant thing in hindsight.

She isn't sure when it was that everything started, but she was only a child back then anyway, unaware of much of what was going on. And she couldn't quite put her finger on exactly _what_ it was that had changed one day; only that she sensed that the world around her was slowly turning bleaker and scarier. Like she was trapped in one of those ghost stories that her brothers would sometimes tell, instinctively knowing something was wrong but incapable of doing anything about it.

Of course, her parents welcomed the developments. They both voted for the National Socialists in the first election they ran in; worked as volunteers for the party, even. And when Hitler came to power, her mother and father celebrated. _You see, Helga, now everything will get better. Germany will take its rightful place among the nations once more. Because now, we have a real leader. _

But things didn't get better. Not to her, anyway.

On her parents' insistence, she joined _Bund deutscher Mädel_ – all proper German girls were part of it, they told her – and participated in their gatherings and activities. It was ironic how it was supposed to foster a sense of community, and yet she always felt apart. All the propaganda, the speeches and rallying made her uncomfortable, and she found it odd how none of the other girls seemed to mind. Quite on the contrary, they eagerly took part, echoing the chants and buzzwords propagated by their leaders.

She hated those gatherings, but never dared to say anything. Some of the members in her group were girls that used to be her playmates, neighbours' daughters, or classmates. Girls she had known for years, sometimes for most of her life. But she no longer recognized some of them; they behaved so differently from the girls she used to know, like they had transformed into someone else.

No, she never remembered Ilse being so hateful when they'd been playing together as little children. Or that Hanne had ever cared about what last names her friends had.

But things were indeed changing. And one day, Germany was at war.

Her parents rejoiced at this. _Finally, Germany will show the world. There'll be no stopping us now. _

She never understood why people held this to be a happy event. Such as that one time when an entire panzer division paraded through Hammelburg on its way to the front, the streets full of little children waving flags and smiling, while women threw flowers at the stone-faced soldiers. It was surreal; the atmosphere was so cheerful, like a marching band was passing by and not an army about to unleash death and destruction upon its enemies. She just stood there staring silently as the tanks slowly trudged by, the flag somebody had handed her drooping sadly in her grip. Until an elderly woman standing next to her gave her a curt push and told her to smile, _smile_, because the last look of home for those brave young soldiers marching off to fight for the Fatherland shouldn't be a sour face like hers.

So she waved at the soldiers and smiled until her face hurt, dread in her heart. The reek of fuel and metal was overwhelming and the roaring of engines deafening. As the tanks passed through the gathered crowd, the ground trembled ominously under her feet. _Metal beasts of terror_, she thought, appalled.

But life went on, even as reports came in from the front with news of soldiers killed and civilians slaughtered. She tried to avoid reading the papers as much as possible, because she didn't want to know about the war – it was easier pretending it didn't exist, like in her carefree childhood days – but at times it seemed as if there was nothing else. And perhaps there wasn't, not anymore.

But she never could speak of these thoughts out loud. Not only might she be branded a traitor to the Reich for her lackluster support of the war effort and their leaders, but there was also the constant pressure from her parents for her to conform to the image of what a German girl should be like. Like those girls in the propaganda movies and posters, with their tightly braided hair and smiling yet hard faces.

_You need to get married, Helga. _These were dreaded words, but did not come as a surprise. She knew very well what role the Party – and her parents – expected her to fulfill as a young German woman. Get married, have children, be a good wife and mother.

But she didn't want that, at least not so early in life. She wanted to study, not get married right away.

Of course, neither her mother nor her father would hear any of it. _A beautiful girl like you of good social standing and family, unmarried? Unthinkable. _

And so, they started introducing her to various suitable men from their circle of acquaintances. Most of them officers, either from the Wehrmacht or the SS.

But she didn't want any of them; a few were nice enough, but the mere idea of them touching her like a husband would disgusted her. And yet, she obediently sat there in the family living room, sipping on her tea and conversing politely, as her suitors tried their best to charm her, her parents watching the proceedings like hawks.

And after their guest had left, the usual arguments would follow – her mother asking her in that high-pitched voice of hers that she would use whenever she was upset, just _why_ this suitor wasn't good enough, and just what was _wrong_ with her, and did she want to die a lonely _spinster_?

She worried that one day she would cave in and say yes to one of these fawning men in their shiny, decorated uniforms who would kiss her hand like gentlemen, while their eyes greedily devoured her without even an inkling of shame.

It came as a great surprise when one day, her father told her that he had found a job for her. At first, she thought she had heard incorrectly. A job, for her? Her parents didn't believe that decent women should work outside of the home at all. Such was for the lower classes that needed the extra income. But she welcomed the news nevertheless, since it meant an opportunity to get away from the stifling environment of her home with its never-ending stream of suitors.

She was disappointed when she found out more about the nature of the job, though – a secretary position for the Kommandant of a POW Stalag. In itself, it wouldn't have been so bad, but the reason for her father's meddling was clear enough – a camp like that would be frequented by officers, of which she was expected to pick one for marriage.

But she settled into her new position and the camp routine soon enough. Apart from the oily officers that would try to woe her on their way to the Kommandant's office, it wasn't too bad. Colonel Klink turned out to be a considerate employer, and a fairly decent man despite all his shortcomings. Still, there was the nagging worry that came with knowing that her parents' patience was growing thin, and that this was a last resort before they'd tire and pick a husband for her themselves.

However, there was one man in Stalag 13 that eventually _did_ win her affection. But of course, her parents would never have accepted him – they'd have preferred she'd remain unmarried until the end of her days rather than wedding Colonel Hogan. An American POW, and secretly involved with the underground to boot, so she had eventually found out.

But she was at least free to dream and fantasize, while stuck in a camp that sometimes felt as if it was as much of a prison for her as for the Allied POWs. Dream that she would one day run away – to where, she didn't know – and marry Colonel Hogan.

However, one day she was hit by a sudden insight that what she felt for the American officer wasn't actually love at all. No, rather, she _envied_ him. Here he was, imprisoned behind barbed wire, and yet he never let a thing like that stop him, not even for a second. And _that_ was what her heart truly desired as she looked at Hogan – the strength and the will not to let circumstances imprison her – not the man himself.

One day, Hogan said something while waiting for admittance to Klink's office. It was only a single, short sentence, spoken in an uncharacteristically soft voice, but it startled her because she wasn't expecting him to speak. She paused and looked up from her paperwork, surprised, but Hogan wasn't even looking at her, instead appearing to be inspecting his fingernails as he nonchalantly leaned against the wall as if he had never spoken at all. She didn't offer a reply, because she wasn't sure if he had even been talking to her, or if he was merely thinking out loud, or why he had even said those words in the first place. Or what he had meant by them.

But the words remained with her, her mind contemplating them time over time again. _We create our own circumstances_. That was what he had said_._

And it was those words that eventually convinced her to quit her position at Stalag 13, despite her parents' horrified protests, and move to Köln to study to become a nurse.

She hasn't regretted her decision since.

She knows that she will probably never see Hogan again, but she will never forget him, or the irony that it was a prisoner who made her understand the true meaning of freedom.

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_**End note:**__ Well, the story is drawing to an end and there's only one more chapter/character to go now. Anyone want to guess who that might be? ;) _


	16. Hogan

_**Author's notes: **Alright, final chapter of this story! Originally, I had something completely different typed up, but then decided I wanted to go for another angle. So this is what I wrote instead. I'm still wavering whether I will post the first attempt as an additional chapter, as a separate one-shot, or not at all. But in any case, yes, this chapter is from Hogan's point of view; I couldn't write a story like this and then not include the one character everyone else is reflecting about, now could I? ;)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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Colonel Robert Hogan is a man who tries hard not to dwell too much on things. In his line of work, such a mindset is neither healthy nor conducive. Besides, there's a war going on in which countless of people get slaughtered each day, soldiers and civilians alike, so what difference do a few more dead Germans every now and then really make?

He's important. What he does is important. He's been told that more times than he even cares to remember. And so he shouldn't be thinking about the victims falling by the wayside, all those unfortunate men whose only crime was being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But sometimes it's hard not to.

And there are still so many things he'd rather not remember at all.

Such at that one time he had to dispatch of a soldier standing guard outside a munitions factory they were going to blow up. As the limp body slid from his grasp and onto the muddy ground, he caught a glimpse of the youthful face under the steel helmet, and the lifeless, still terrified eyes staring into his. He froze, then, thinking, _this boy is – was – young enough to be my son. _

He stood there staring at the dead body lying at his feet for what felt like an eternity but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, until suddenly Kinch's hand was on his shoulder, and a muffled, concerned _you alright, Colonel?_ was mumbled into his ear.

He shrugged both the hand and the question off with a _yeah, sure_, and everyone left it at that. No one asked him anything more or mentioned the incident ever again.

But he still remembers how the real question had laid not in Kinch's words, but in his silently contemplating eyes.

There had also been understanding in those eyes, along with an offer to confide, but Hogan didn't take it. He knows that Kinch never expected him to anyway. Because he's an officer, and officers don't show weakness. They don't confide in their men. They're strong, and unflappable. They support those under their command, not the other way around.

His men all look up to him, consider him a hero. _A hero_. And they need for him to remain one, but he can't do that if he were ever to show weakness in front of them.

Being a pilot was so much easier, he thinks. At least he never had to see the faces of the people he killed, neither before nor after.

Still, at the end of the day, what causes him the most guilt isn't the things he does. It's all those things he _doesn't_ do.

Their job, or at least a good part of it, is to rescue people. Help them to get out of Germany – downed pilots, nuclear scientists, Allied spies, underground leaders. People who are important. People who can make a difference in the war effort.

That's who they help, Not all those innocent men, women and children who no longer have a place in this new Germany. The _undesirables_.

They do nothing for those people.

His men don't know what really goes on in Germany these days, or at least not the full extent of it. But _he_ does. And so does London. And the top brass. They all know.

And yet they choose to do nothing. _There's too much risk. Too much is at stake_, London told him once when he demanded to know why_. The best way of helping those victims is to put an end to the war as quickly as possible._ _That's all we can do. It's all _you_ can do. But what you're doing is enough to make you a hero, never forget that. _

And he left it at that, because he's a soldier and a good soldier follows orders, even when he doesn't agree with them.

He's never told any of his men about what's happening in Germany behind closed doors. Because he knows none of them could ever accept that they'd just continue to do nothing. They would want to help, because they're good men with a strong sense of right and wrong, all of them.

But he's certain that one day, they will eventually find out, because such a big, terrible thing cannot remain hidden forever. Perhaps the war will already be over by then, and they'll be free men. Whatever the case, he can already see their accusing eyes before him, as they look at their commanding officer in shocked disbelief, asking him, _did you know? Did you know about this? _

And he's a good liar, always has been, and especially so these days now that his life depends on his being one, but that's one question he knows he won't be able to answer untruthfully. He'll have to tell them that yes – yes, he did know. But the orders were to do nothing.

His men will be appalled. Shocked. Disgusted. Horrified. _How could you not say anything? Not _do_ anything_, they will ask him.

And he'll have no answer to give them. None that will matter anyway. He'll just have to live with their loathing once they learn the truth.

But in the end, that loathing will still be nothing compared to the self-disgust he has no choice but to live with every day.

And he thinks that if this is what being a hero is like, he doesn't want to be one.

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_**End note: **__Thank you for the feedback on this story; I really appreciate it! And for __those of you who might be interested, I'm currently writing a follow-up story to _Reflections_, which I plan to start posting fairly soon. The story will be titled _Contemplations_ (unless a better title comes along until then), and will deal with the fate of the characters after the war. _


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